the thing about dreams
by Wilhelmina Willoughby
Summary: One day, ten hours, and about thirty minutes after Percy disappears, she falls asleep in her own bed, the echo of his lips whispering across her own. His memory is still warm. When she wakes and goes to his cabin, he's nowhere to be found. She wonders how long it's going to take for her to get used to the emptiness.


The thing about dreams is that sometimes they're too real.

One day, ten hours, and about thirty minutes after Percy disappears, she falls asleep in her own bed, the echo of his lips whispering across her own. His memory is still warm. When she wakes and goes to his cabin, he's nowhere to be found. She wonders how long it's going to take for her to get used to the emptiness.

Four days, a handful of hours. Her one-shoed lead is a kid named Jason. He has no idea who Percy Jackson is; he has little idea of himself, either, doesn't know anything about _anything, _and she can't do this. She can't do this. She screams curses at the sky, curses Hera, curses all the damn gods who can't get it together. That night, she dreams of nothing, just a dark, vacant void that pulls the air from her lungs, traps her in place. She expects it's supposed to serve as some kind of punishment. All it serves to do is twist her anger into cold determination.

Eighteen days. Nineteen. Twenty. She passes out against the wall, nestled into a corner of an abandoned apartment bedroom. The sleeping bag she's tucked into is an old one, well-used and patched-up with thread and old t-shirt squares and good memories. Lying underneath the stars with Percy, squeezed in too tightly, limbs twined like moon-blossom vines. He whispered his love against her cheek, that night. Kissed her until she felt _want _sear through her veins. She clings to the memory. She can't lose it. She can't lose him.

Forty days. Fifty. Nico has lost contact. Grover's last Iris message was last month. Tyson is somewhere out West. Annabeth has marked their progress on a large map of the United States, but as they stretch further out, the circles are more hesitant, wide-spread. Maybe her map isn't big enough. She dreams of a beach in Greece. White sand, clear sky. A little girl with curly black hair skips around in the tide, her tiny toes curling in the surf, her arm reaching out. Annabeth stands to join her, but the closer she gets, the further away the little girl appears, until she is taken in by the ocean and Annabeth screams herself to consciousness.

Three months. She has lost count of the minutes, the hours, the days. There have been too many. Chiron wants her to give up. Has wanted her to give up. Doesn't he know who she is? Who _Percy _is? Doesn't Chiron dream of him, too? Why doesn't the stupid boy haunt anybody else but her?

Almost to the fourth month. She's losing the exact color of his eyes, the hiccupping rasp of his too-hard laughter. Even in her sleep, he's becoming blurry, a black-and-white static version of himself, cold and distant and gone.

Five months, three and a half weeks. There's something. She feels something. Pieces start to come together, pieces from years back, from the newest quest, Rachel's Great Prophecy, Chiron's reluctant silence; Annabeth places everything together as best she can, a hodge-podge puzzle of an idea, but it's the only thing that makes sense. Percy. Percy. Percy. She slips into his cabin, wraps herself in his sweatshirt, rests her head on his pillow. For the first time in a while, she feels hope. She dreams of his smile.

Six months. Six long months. One hundred and eighty two days. Half a year. Finally—_finally_—they are flying for the coast. Annabeth cradles her aching heart in the cage of her ribs, pulls herself tall with stiff shoulders, distracts herself by making plans. Several main plans. Contingency plans. Emergency plans. Not one includes not finding Percy. It's not an option. She can't waste time sleeping when there's so much to think about, so much to prepare for, and so she stays awake and imagines the look on his face when he remembers her. There is no other option.

Six months, six hours, and about twelve minutes. The _Argo II _hovers above ground. A legion of enemies parts to let her pass. And Percy is there. His arms are a solid weight around her waist, his breath a real, living gasp in his chest—she clings, chokes against a sob, presses her mouth to the jumping pulse in his neck—Percy, Percy, he _remembers_—and then he kisses her, and she is full to bursting with campfires and starlight and the brightest kind of hope.

The thing about dreams is that sometimes they're too real, and that sometimes, when they come to pass, they're even better.


End file.
